


Mise En Place

by lambkt



Category: Lore Olympus (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, F/M, I have no self control, Restaurants, Server Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:59:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22177783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lambkt/pseuds/lambkt
Summary: Self-indulgent server AU because I work 80 hours a week and think of literally nothing else. I'm actually really excited about this one. A product of the hiatus, enjoy.
Relationships: Hades/Persephone (Lore Olympus)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 81





	1. 86 Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Bee for the read, though this probably would have been better if I had actually asked either of you for an actual beta. *shrug*
> 
> Dictionary at the end!

Persephone pulled her hair into a loose bun on top of her head and sighed, “How many covers?”

“Eighty six,” replied Eros, wrapping the strings of his long black apron around his waist and tying it in the front.

“Yeah, I wish we could eighty six tonight,” Persephone groaned. She pulled her server book from the pocket of her apron and rummaged through the used note paper, throwing the ones that were far too scratched with various orders to be useful anymore carelessly to the side. 

“Why the long face, babe?” asked Eros as he stepped forward to fix her wrinkled collar. “That’s good for a Monday. Besides, I heard the owner is coming in tonight.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively at her. 

“I don’t know why you’re so worked up,” she said indifferently, her eyes cast down on the black sleeve of her button-down that she was rolling neatly past her elbow, “he’s the prick that makes us serve guests pickled vegetables instead of bread like a normal restaurant.”

“Well, I never said he was perfect, but he _is_ hot,” contested Eros.

“And who comes up with a name like ‘The Underworld’ for this kind of place anyway.” Persephone rolled her eyes and gestured vaguely to the room around her. 

It was a much-too large space with light brown tables and a laminate ‘wood’ floor that matched the tables in an unsettling way. The chairs were fat looking and upholstered with a deep red pleather, adorned with gold buttons. Two bars sat at the front and back of the restaurant. The nicer one in back, laid with _real_ white marble, was hardly used, unless for service tickets on a busy night, and mostly to protect the pointless, _expensive_ surface. The one up front, with an obnoxious, traditional, arm rest moulding that sat an inch above the bartop and jutted out four inches out from the bar itself, making it near impossible to reach a plate if one was trying to eat, was made from the recycled wood of a bar inside a failed ‘_gentlemen's dinner cruise_’—strip club on the high seas, really—yacht one of the owner’s brothers had opened and closed within the same six months. 

“‘Tavern-style’ restaurant trying to be a five star steak-house,” she grumbled.

“Calm down, Perse. Be thankful there’s no white table cloths. And, anyways, I heard the only thing he got to pick was the name, his brother, Zues, that owns that tacky restaurant chain in New York did the interior,” said Eros as he turned to pull a pack of linen napkins from the bottom shelf of the service station. 

“Well, I _don’t_ want to serve the _King_ of The Underworld,” Persephone remarked sarcastically. 

Eros laughed and turned back to her with an arm full of linens. With his free hand he brushed a lock of powder-pink hair out of his eyes. “You don’t have to, baby girl. He’s only here because the Executive Chef of the whole restaurant group is doing expo tonight since the kitchen has been a dumpster fire since the head chef got fired. We have that buyout next week and I’m sure he’s trying to make sure they’ll be ready.”

Persephone crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, let’s hope they can get it together tonight. I’m already over it.”

“Winning attitude, Persephone. Fix your face before a guest sees, and here,” with his free hand Eros took half of the linens in his hands and threw them at Persephone, effectively dislodging her bun when they hit her in the face, “start your folds so you can just leave when your cut. Reservations start right at five tonight and the premeal is in fifteen, so hurry up.”

Persephone gaped at him through the mess of hair that had fallen in her face, holding the pile of napkins in her arms awkwardly.

“Play stupid games, win stupid prizes, babe,” he quiped, flashing her a smug wink. 

She opened her mouth to protest, but was cut short when Hermes bounded up to them, his messy, curly red hair bouncing with every step he took, and a giant smile plastered on his face. 

Eros raised an eyebrow at Persephone and they both turned to eye Hermes critically. Hermes’ dress pants were neatly pressed and secured around his waist with a black belt, but everything else about him was in complete disarray. The dress shoes on his feet were both untied, and his apron was casually thrown over his shoulder, doing nothing to hide the fact that his black button-down was completely _unbuttoned_, exposing his bare chest.

“Nice hair, P! Are you trying a new look?” Hermes asked cheerfully, separately greeting Eros with a hard slap to the shoulder, making him wince.

Persephone threw the linens in her arms on the counter and self consciously patted at her messy hair. “No,” she scowled, glaring at Eros from the corner of her eye as she gently pulled her tangled, magenta hair from the hair tie, opting to fix it into a braid this time. 

“Hey, Hermes,” said Eros slowly, “reservations start soon, you know.”

“Yeah! Why? Did you not finish detailing the tables or something? I can do it!” offered Hermes. 

“Well,” Eros started, cocking his head at Hermes’ exposed chest, “as much as _I_ love Chippendales, and we _all_ know I do, this is not Vegas and our guests are expecting a certain level of modesty.”

“Man, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Hermes professed innocently, running his fingers absently through the mess of fluffy hair piled on the top of his head. “Are you trying to say Persephone’s boobs are too big tonight? Because I think they look the same as always. She really can’t help it.”

Persephone’s jaw dropped and she quickly covered her chest with her arms, abandoning the braid and letting it fall loose down her back. “They’re not too big,” she mumbled under her breath.

“Hermes,” Eros said carefully, closing his eyes and templing his hands in front of his chest, taking a steadying breath before continuing, “button your damn shirt, you’re on the floor.”

Hermes looked down at himself. “Oh! How did that happen?”

“How did—_no_, nope, I’m going to get ice. I can’t deal with this right now.” Eros waved his hand dismissively towards Hermes and started off towards the prep kitchen, muttering to himself about professionalism.

.

“Good afternoon, team,” greeted Hestia, taking her time to make eye contact with every server and bartender gathered around her, her large smile showcasing her perfectly white teeth. Her eyes narrowed as they fell on Persephone, and through her clenched, _perfect_ teeth she hissed, “Persephone, button up, you’re showing too much skin.”

Persephone jumped at the sudden harshness of her tone and wordlessly buttoned the last button of her shirt, her collar now tight around her neck.

“So,” continued Hestia, her voice returning to a sickly-sweet tone, “tonight we have 86 on the books, and it looks like it’ll be a slow start with the push starting at 6:30 and going until 7:30, then, we’re all in by 9:45. Executive Chef Hecate will be running the line tonight, and I expect you to make her life easier by watching your fire times, I don’t want anyone making her do things on the fly because you forgot to fire your table.” Hestia stopped and flipped through the notes in front of her. “Large parties are a seven top at 6:45 and a nine top at seven. Chef, how’s the kitchen?”

From behind Hermes a tall woman in a black chef’s coat stepped forward, her name and title embroidered in delicate, silver cursive on her jacket. She was an imposing woman, her honey-brown eyes resembling liquid gold under the lights of the back service station. Her long, jet-black hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, not a single strand out of place. From her jacket to her dress pants everything looked expensive and perfectly tailored to her. 

“Good afternoon,” she greeted, nodding once at the group.

“Good afternoon, Chef,” responded everyone in unison. 

“On count we have ten filet to sell and six crudo. The special tonight is herb ravioli stuffed with butternut squash and venison, finished with a honey mustard cream sauce, $25. We have ten of those to sell,” Hecate articulated. She looked around the room, her eyes falling on the only server not taking notes. She raised an eyebrow at Hermes, who just smiled and tapped his temple with his index finger. Hecate rolled her eyes and sighed, “Questions?”

The room was silent and Hecate nodded once more before turning on her heels and striding gracefully back towards the kitchen, her clogs clicking softly against the floor.

“Bar?” asked Hestia, turning her attention to the athletic, blonde man leaning casually against the ice well. 

Apollo cleared his throat and stood up straight, taking the time to roll up his sleeves before he spoke. “Nothing is 86-ed, no pressing counts except there are a few one counts on wines by the bottle, but I’m not worried. If anyone asks, Jack’s Abby Abduction of Spring is your favorite beer, I’d like to kick the keg by the weekend. After that we have Loxius Sip of Sunshine lined up. You’ll have Artemis on down-bar as your closer and I’ll be on up-bar for service.”

“Perfect,” chimed Hestia, clasping her hands together in front of her. “The owner is coming in tonight, so I expect the tables to be perfectly detailed, and all service stations clean and stocked. I _will_ be checking. Check your sections and have a good service everyone!”

.

“Do we need anything else?” asked Hermes as he finished brewing another round of coffee.

“Did someone stock the to-go stuff?” questioned Eros.

“Yeah,” answered Persephone, “we’re out of small containers, _still_, even though I’ve told Hestia to order them twice.”

Eros sighed, “Color me surprised. Veggies?”

The three of them looked at each other for a moment before Hermes shouted, “Not it!” He touched his pointer finger to the tip of his nose, an elated expression washing over his face.

“_Persephone_,” Eros drawled slowly, batting his eyelashes at her. “Pretty please, cinnamon roll? I’m too hungover to smell those right now. _Please_.”

Persephone looked at him for a long moment, doing everything in her power not to break under his gaze. As always, it was fruitless. “Fine,” she groaned before spinning on her heels and making her way through the kitchen, trotting down the stairs to the basement where the prep kitchen was. 

It was a narrow space. In the center was a giant column, nearly obstructing any use the space might serve. Around it were two heavy, metal tables that fit together at impractical angles, and jammed up next to them were high, flimsy looking shelves stuffed with a multitude of stainless steel utensils. The floors were lined with deep red ceramic tile and the walls lined with sheets of stainless steel. It hardly gave off the impression of a kitchen, more reminiscent of a morgue. 

There were two walk-ins, one for the bar, filled to the brim with kegs and various juices, milks, and wines. The other, smaller one was stacked with container upon container of anything and everything the kitchen staff might need to cook. Shockingly, this was the only really organized part of the entire restaurant. Each shelf was neatly labeled with its contents, and every container labeled with exactly what was inside and the date it had been stocked. While it was a health department requirement, it was done with such care that Persephone always thought whoever was doing it wasn’t doing it because they had to, it seemed they actually _wanted_ to. 

She hummed to herself as she grabbed a plastic container and a set of tongs off the shelf and pulled on the large, metal handle of the kitchen’s small walk-in. She shivered in the blast of cold air, hugging an arm around herself to fend against the chilly fridge.

Persephone moved quickly, pulling various pickled veggies from multiple containers, grimacing at the smell as she lifted the lid off each one. 

The door of the walk in opened and startled her. Persephone looked up as an impossibly tall man ducked through the threshold. 

His eyes were an icy blue and piercing against his olive skin. He was striking. His hair was cut short and black with a kiss of gray around his temples, perfectly sculpted with the right amount of length on top. It was gelled back neatly, which seemed out of place considering his chef’s jacket was splattered with various bits of sauces and sticky substances. 

“Oh,” squeaked Persephone, “hi! You startled me.”

“My apologies, I didn’t think anyone was down here.”

Persephone raised an eyebrow at the man, her eyes falling on his patent leather shoes. “Are you the new head chef?” she asked, her tone carrying an obvious lilt of disbelief.

“Well,” he started, tilting his head at her, a coy grin pulling at the corner of his mouth, “actually I—”

“Because you can’t be wearing _those_ in the kitchen. They’re not non-slip,” she interrupted, hugging the half-full container of veggies to her chest and leaning back against the shelf to survey the man more critically. 

“My dog ate my clogs,” he grumbled.

“And with shoes like that you couldn’t afford to stop by Famous Baxeae on the way here and buy a new pair? You’re going to break your neck,” she said, her tone smug.

His mouth hung open slightly in surprise, as if he’d never been subjected to such criticism before. The looked lasted only a moment before he rolled his shoulders back and crossed his arms over his chest, now standing at his full height. There was a small amused spark in his eyes that raised goosebumps across Persephone’s skin. 

“I got here at eight this morning, they weren’t open yet,” he stated plainly.

Persephone swallowed the lump in her throat and turned away from him to set the container she was holding on the shelf next to her. “I’m sure Hestia has an extra pair laying around, I’ll go ask her.”

“No,” he responded, a little too quickly. 

She turned back to him and eyed him quizzically. “Why not?”

“I, uh, I’ve been down here avoiding her, actually,” he admitted sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck with his large hand. 

Persephone barked out a laugh. “I get it, this is usually where I hide from her, too.”

He flashed her a goofy smile, a look that warmed her even under the direct assault of the walk-in fan. “If I promise to never show up in these again, will you keep it between us?”

“These sort of sordid affairs seem to be reserved for scoundrels,” she quipped.

“Do I look like a scoundrel to you?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow at her. 

“Yes,” she said, a blush crawling over her cheeks. 

A small furrow knotted itself between his thick eyebrows. He opened his mouth to argue, but Persephone cut him off with a playful grin. 

“I’d say thirty percent scoundrel, at least.”

He smiled, the worry melting from his features. “That’s fair, you’ll have to let me know if my scoundrel percentage increases.”

Persephone became suddenly aware of the cold, a violent shiver vibrating through her body. “I’d better get going, these vile veggies aren’t going to serve themselves.”

“What’s wrong with them?” he asked seriously, his tone taking her by surprise. 

She shrugged, turning back to the shelves and quickly filling her container. “Just because the owner has a thing for pickles, doesn’t mean the general public does. No one likes them and they smell terrible. Plus, they add an extra two minutes between putting an order in and mise-ing the table. It’s hard when you get flat sat.”

Persephone stepped around him and pushed her way out of the walk-in, stopping to hold open the door for him. He hummed in acknowledgement and followed her out.

She opened her mouth to continue rambling, an argument clearly perfected from frequent complaints, but was cut off when Ero’s voice rolled down the stairway.

“Persephone?” Eros called. “Did you fall in? You just got sat!”

“Sugar snaps,” she muttered. She turned back to the man and gave him a warm smile. “You know, you never introduced yourself. I believe that bumps you up to thirty-one percent scoundrel.”

“Hades,” he said, giving her a lop-sided grin.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Persephone.”


	2. Heard

“Filet, med-rare, seat one. Halibut,” Persephone muttered to herself as she plugged the orders into the terminal, “seat two. Ragu, seat th—”

“Hey, Perse,” whispered Eros as he nudged her arm with his elbow. “His _majesty_, mister tall, dark, and brooding is here.”

Persephone looked up at Eros and followed his gaze towards the door. Ascending the stairs by the host stand was an impossibly tall man wrapped in an expensive looking three-piece black suit completed with _patent leather shoes_, the messy chef’s coat now a mere memory.

From across the room his piercing blue eyes met hers, and she could swear she saw a smile unknot the pensive line of his lips. Persephone’s hand twitched at her side, but the would-be wave was cut off when Hestia appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

“Hades!” exclaimed Hestia.

Hades’ eyes lingered a moment longer before he turned to address his general manager, his face settling back into a statuesque business man once again as he shook Hestia’s hand. He looked very different from the man that Persephone had met in the walk-in, and for a moment she found herself wondering if she had imagined the whole thing. Maybe he had a twin brother and _that_ was who she met. 

Persephone stole one more look before she turned back to the computer, a deep blush dancing across the freckles on her face. It all made sense now. The memory of their meeting made her want to crawl into the dishwasher and never come out.

“Mmm,” hummed Eros, licking his lips and clearly unaware of her embarrassment, “that man is a _snack_.”

“Eros,” Persephone snapped in a hushed tone, smacking him lightly on his arm. “He’s the man that writes your checks, stop staring.”

Eros rolled his eyes and looked down at Persephone. “Baby girl, I make $2.63 an hour. If he’s signing me checks, I haven’t seen them. But, that man can sit in my section _anytime_.” He snagged a bottle of still water from the fridge below the service station before turning and sashaying back towards his section. 

She shook her head after him, suppressing the laugh that was trying to sneak its way past her lips and turned her attention back to the computer.

“Okay,” she muttered aloud to herself again, shaking her head and resigning herself to worry about her behavior later, “where was I—ah! Ragu, seat three. Perfect, send.”

Stepping back from the computer she looked over at where Hades had been standing, only to find that he wasn’t there anymore. For a moment a frown painted over her face. _No_, she chastised herself, _he makes us serve_ pickled vegetables _instead of_ bread. _He’s the enemy Persephone, no matter how good you think he’ll look naked._

“Mise en place,” she sighed. “Including myself.”

.

“Corner!” shouted Persephone as she rounded the corner into the kitchen. She stood off to the left of the expo line as Hecate called out the remaining orders on a newly fired table to the line cooks.

“Chef?” pitched Persephone once Hecate had finished.

Hecate turned and regarded her curiously, a look of mild annoyance flashing across her face.

Persephone gulped. “Chef, I’m dragging a caesar on 224.”

“Heard,” Hecate stated plainly before turning to the line cook on garde manger. “Can I have a caesar on the fly, please?” 

Persephone watched the woman in awe, her cold demeanor doing nothing to slow the fluid way she commanded the line. She had never seen someone so in control of a group of people, and the line cooks who were historically hard to deal with seemed almost too fearful to dare challenge her. 

The garde manger cook handed the salad to Hecate, and without turning Hecate handed the salad to Persephone. “Seat four on 224 to sell.” 

“Thank you, Chef, seat four on 224 to sell,” repeated Persephone as she turned and began to round the corner out of the kitchen. “Corner!” she shouted a little too late, for as she rounded the corner she collided with a tall, broad form that sent her stumbling. She fell backwards, landing hard on her back, romaine falling over her in almost comically show motion, reminiscent of the first real snow storm to hit the streets in December. If it had been, the embarrassed blush that set fire to her cheeks and the tips of her ears could have sent the whole of Boston cascading right into an early spring. “Sugar snaps,” she groaned, shutting her eyes tight.

“Are you alright?” asked a deep baritone voice from above her.

“Yeah,” she sighed, “I’m—” Persephone opened her eyes and squeaked in surprise, her hands flying to cover her mouth. Towering above her was the impossibly tall _owner_, his face twisted in a concerned expression as he looked down at her. “I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed. Persephone tried to scramble to her feet, but slipped on the romaine scattered across the floor. Hades caught her, his arm wrapped securely around her waist. “Sorry,” she muttered again, looking up to meet his gaze, her hands braced against his chest. His blue eyes sent a chill down her spine, almost as if she were still standing in the walk-in with him.

She was vaguely aware of the annoyed groan from behind her, before Hecate told the cook to fire another salad, though it was enough to snap Persephone back to reality. She stepped back and wrapped her arms around herself, dropping her gaze down to her feet.

“I’m so sorry,” she apologized again. “I should have been more careful.”

“_You_ should have been more careful?” Hades laughed. “I should have been paying more attention. You _did_ say ‘corner’.”

Persephone looked up at him, her eyes falling to a piece of romaine that had fallen on his shoulder. “But your suit—”

Hades held up a hand to stop her protests and smiled, using the same hand to flick away the piece of lettuce. “No problem.”

She looked down at herself and blushed again, hurridley attempting to brush away the romaine _and_ dressing that littered her uniform. _Thank gods he chose black for the uniform_, she thought to herself. Once satisfied she met his gaze once more. “Did I get it all?” she asked.

Hades laughed, reaching out hesitantly towards her before he froze, his hand only a few centimeters away from her cheek. He was so close she could smell his cologne—spicy and warm—it reminded her of winter. “May I?” he asked timidly. 

Persephone nodded, the breath getting caught in her lungs.

He gave her a crooked smile and continued, carefully pulling an anchovy from her hair. “You look… sufficient.”

She blushed again and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank yo—”

“Persephone. Take this,” demanded Hecate, the new caesar in her hands.

“Yes, Chef, sorry. Thank you, Chef. Seat four, 224,” stammered Persephone, before she took the salad from Hecate’s hands and all but ran from the kitchen.

“Don’t do that,” said Hecate, turning to look at Hades whose gaze rested on the hallway where she had just disappeared.

Hades hummed and looked back at Hecate. “What did you say?”

“Hades, she’s half your age,” cautioned Hecate. 

He held up his hands in defense. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Yet,” muttered Hecate, turning her attention back to the line.

.

“Gods,” groaned Eros, throwing the signed check from one of his tables in front of Persephone, “I kissed their _asses_ for $34 on $250.” He scrubbed his hands down his face. 

Persephone frowned at the check. “You sent them desert, too, right?”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I think it was probably that they had their entrees before they had their drinks.”

“They came after the apps?” she asked, turning to face Eros and leaning against the service station with her arms folded across her chest. 

“Yeah! Apollo is too busy flirting with some girl at the bar that I literally had to walk behind the bar and take my service ticket down to Artemis!” he fumed, gesturing towards Apollo who was leaning cooly against the taps, talking to a girl who was laughing too loudly and twirling her brunette hair around her finger.

Persephone grimaced. “He sucks.”

Eros nodded and joined her in leaning against the service station. “He’s Hestia’s favorite, he’ll never get fired.”

“No, not with his head so far up her ass,” she agreed, leaning her head against his arm. 

Eros rested his head on top of hers, an angle that always proved challenging with their height difference, but a gesture he refused to give up on. “Persephone?” he asked, and she could hear the smile in his tone.

“Yes?” she sighed.

“Baby girl, why is there romaine in your hair? You smell like the inside of our fish delivery truck.”

“How would you know what the inside of _our_ fish delivery truck smells like?”

Eros shrugged, trying to come off as nonchalant, but Persephone felt him tense up against her side. She decided to file that information away for later, knowing there must be an interesting reason as to why he hadn’t told her. It would just take a couple glasses of sparkling to loosen him up enough and get him talking.

“So?” he asked, clearly relieved she hadn’t pressed him about it.

“I ran into the owner,” she muttered, feigning interest in the state of her cuticles

“So, how did this happen?” He plucked the offending leaf from her hair and offered it to her, not bothering to move from his position.

Persephone pushed his hand away, grimacing. “No, I literally _ran_ into him.”

“_Oh_,” he chuckled. “And you still have a job, how?”

“He was really sweet about it,” she admitted. 

“And here I half expected you to call him a prick again.”

She shrugged, scratching at some dried dressing on the front of her apron. “I’ve been thinking, you know, he’s really busy owning a restaurant, and I guess the problems I have are more with _management_, and he just doesn’t have the time—”

“Shut up!” exclaimed Eros, turning to face her with his hands clasped in front of his chest. 

“What? He could still be a prick. I just—”

Eros took her face between both of his hands, pulling her so close that she could feel his breath skate across the freckles of her nose. “Defensive tone, slightly flushed, high body temp…” He pulled back from her suddenly, wiggling excitedly. He had this same overjoyed reaction when he found out she’d kissed Hermes in the dish pit last New Years, even though she had done her best to keep _that_ a secret, too. “You have a crush on the owner!”

Persephone clasped a hand over his mouth and shushed him, taking the time to look around and see if anyone had heard. “I don’t have a crush on him, that’s ridiculous.”

With a doubtful expression, Eros gently removed her hand from his face. “Uh, you clearly do,” he said matter-of-factly. “You have the glow of someone who has been flirting _all_ morning.”

“Let me be clear, I don’t have a crush on him,” she persisted, leaning once more against the service station. “He’s just not as bad as I thought.”

Eros raised an eyebrow at her. For a moment she thought she’d seen an idea glimmer across his face, but it was gone as quickly as it came. “Are you closing tonight?” he asked, his tone unperturbed.

“No, Hermes is,” she replied, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling he was giving her.

“Want to get a drink when we get cut?” he asked, flashing her a mischievous grin. 

Persephone looked up at him and narrowed her eyes. “I don’t like when you look at me like that. What do you have in mind?”

He hummed and twirled away from the service station, making a show of bowing before her while taking her hand before placing a soft kiss on her knuckles. “How do you feel about some tapas, wine, and that very _delicious_ looking bartender in the South End?”

Persephone matched his mischievous grin, “Cocytus?”

Eros smiled up at her through thick eyelashes, his breath dancing across the back of her hand and up her arm, raising goosebumps in its wake. “Cocytus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Garde manger- cold salad/ dessert station in a kitchen.
> 
> On the fly- ASAP and before anything else, if possible.


	3. Cocytus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry friends, I’m out of practice. I hope you’re all staying safe and healthy 💜
> 
> This got cheesy, but it made me happy.

“So,” Eros began, the bridge of his nose pinched between his thumb and middle finger as he conceded to Persephone’s incessant nagging, “he asks me to sign for this delivery, right? And of course I’m not a chef, but he’s _hot_ so obviously I go.”

“Right,” agreed Persephone, taking a sip of her prosecco, watching as Eros sighed and sat up straight. 

“And then, I’m counting the boxes and I’m like, ‘You’re one short.’ He apologies and looks me dead in the face and says, ‘_You should come help me find it_,’ and then he _winks_ at me before just walking right out the damn door!”

Persephone shook her head. “Eros, you didn’t…”

“Oh, baby girl, you bet your ass I did,” said Eros, pausing to tip an oyster back into his mouth, placing the empty shell face-down on the ice, “not everyone is as happy being sexless as you. I take what I can get.”

She rolled her eyes and scrunched up her nose in annoyance. Persephone opened her mouth to protest, but stopped as he cocked his head at her, a look that reminded her that he knew the script of her argument by heart. Sighing, she relented, “Go on.”

“Yeah, anyways,” continued Eros, “he’s got me pushed up against some bags of shrimp and his truck is in the _alley_, and all I’m thinking is that this must be the worst thing I’ve ever done because his tongue is down my throat and all I smell is fish. But then we hear a car door slam and it’s _Hestia_.”

Persephone gasped, “No! Did she catch you?”

Eros raised an eyebrow at her. “Well, I’m sure it probably looked pretty weird that I was casually pinned between bags of refrigerated raw seafood and the _very_ muscular chest of this delivery guy, his tongue probing my open mouth.”

Persephone buried her face in her hands. “Oh, Eros, you can’t be serious—”

“Wait,” he interjected, “that’s not even the best part.”

She looked up at him through her fingers. 

“She knew him,” he said pointedly, his mouth pulled up in a cocky, half-smile.

“No!”

“_Yes!_” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. The movement caught the attention of half the guests at the bar and the poor server walking behind Eros with two full wine glasses on her tray. The server jumped in surprise, sending the glasses tipping right towards her nicely pressed white shirt. With a practiced, quick movement her hand covered the base of the glasses, narrowly keeping them from falling. 

As the server steadied the glasses she shot Eros a glare and ground out, “Excuse me, sorry sir.” The all-too pleasant smile that accompanied her unnecessary apology was telling of her many years in the industry. 

“I’m so sorry,” Persephone said hurriedly. 

Eros gave the server an apologetic smile as she quickly walked away, her hand still resting on the base of the glasses, keeping them in place atop the tray. After a moment he leaned closer to Persephone, continuing in a hushed tone, “Turns out he’s _the_ Poseidon that owns Poseidon Lobster Co. and his _brother_ is our owner!”

Persephone’s mouth fell open, her lips falling around a silent “no.” She shook her head in disbelief. “So what did she say?”

“Oh, Hestia acted like I wasn’t even there and he was cocky enough that he didn’t move while they had a full-on conversation about needing twenty more cod for a special chef was running that week.”

“Gods, that’s crazy. But what a mood killer.”

Eros nodded and moved to take a sip of his prosecco, but stopped with the glass resting on his lip. “His bed was more comfortable than the back of the delivery truck.”

Persephone gaped at him as he raised the flute and finished his half-full drink in one gulp. A nervous giggle burst from her lips, and soon the two of them had dissolved in a fit of laughter that left them gasping for air. 

“Speaking of the ownership and things that we should not be doing with them,” he started, picking up another oyster and making a show of making sure it was detached, his pinky swirling the meat back and forth in the shell, “there has _got_ to be more to your story.” 

Persephone’s eyes widened at Eros, but she was quick to regain her composure and she took a casual sip of her drink. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Slowly Eros turned in his chair to face her, one elbow on the bar with his chin cradled softly in his palm.

“What?” asked Persephone, pretending to scratch at something on the outside of her glass. 

Eros scoffed. “I just saw your eyes get buggy, so…”

Persephone rolled her eyes, waving her hand dismissively in his direction. “There is nothing to tell.”

“You know, you… you’re really stingy with details,” he said, raising an eyebrow in her direction. 

“It’s stupid,” she contested. 

“What? Come on. I’m not going to tell anyone.” 

Persephone sighed. “He just… made me feel important.” She let her head fall into her hands, muffling the last word against her palms.

Eros watched her for a minute. Gently he reached out and placed a soft hand on her shoulder. “You don’t feel important?”

Persephone shrugged, moving slightly away so that Eros’ hand fell back to his side. Her eyes followed the bartender as he moved fluidly, completing one drink then the next. She could feel Eros watching her. Finally she cleared her throat and moved to take a long, slow sip of her drink, letting the bubbles lift her spirits. 

“I’ll be right back,” she said quickly as she slipped from the stool and made her way towards the bathroom. 

Eros chewed at the inside of his cheek, a plan beginning to form. He nearly jumped out of his chair as he leaned over the bar, rudely grabbing the attention of the nearest bartender. “Two more glasses of prosecco.” Eros sat back and pulled his phone from his back pocket in one fluid motion. He raised his eyes back to the bartender who hadn’t moved, his arms crossed coolly across his chest. “Uh, sorry… _please_,” he corrected himself, flashing his most charming smile. 

The bartender just rolled his eyes in response.

Eros shook his head, mentally adding his name to the list of people he needed to buy apology donuts for later, and turned his attention to his phone. 

_Eros: Hey Sea Daddy ;)_

_Eros: Wanna meet for a drink??_

_Poseidon: Sure! _

_Eros: There’s a catch.._

_Poseidon: ???_

_Eros: Well.. my friend is here. I was thinking that you could drag that tall sugar daddy with the chiseled jaw I met at your place to keep her company?_

_Poseidon: Be there soon ;)_

**Author's Note:**

> Mise En Place- a french term used by the service industry meaning “everything in its place.” To “mise” a table means to preset them before their next course.
> 
> 86- generally a kitchen term meaning something along the lines of no more, reject, discard, cancel, ran out, etc. The idea in restaurants is to give people as much information as possible with as little words as possible. The sentence could be as short as “86 lobster,” it being understood as no more lobster entree (or whatever). Or, “We 86-ed broccolini, we’re subbing green beans.” 
> 
> Premeal- the meeting of the front of house (FOH) staff including: servers, bartenders, at least one manager, and at least one representative from the kitchen, usually a sous chef, head chef, and sometimes the executive chef, depending on their role in the restaurant. 
> 
> Executive chef- higher in status than a head chef, and a lot of the time very, very close to the owner, sometimes having helped open the restaurant. A head chef is usually just the head of one restaurant and answers to the executive chef. Depending on the size of a restaurant group the executive chef might have a larger hand in the day to day happenings (the larger the group, typically the more hands off). 
> 
> Flat sat- when you get fully or almost fully (triple sat or more) sat at the same time. Problematic because everyone needs to be greeted, watered, and have their orders taken all at once, and they are all in the same place in their meals, which usually leads to a “mass exodus” (when everyone leaves at the same time). Common, but not welcome. 
> 
> Folds- folded napkins, usually linen.
> 
> Covers- reservations.


End file.
